I glanced at Rans in the mirrored walls. “Seriously, though. Does Guthrie even know we’re coming?”
“I texted him,” Rans replied, unruffled. “He replied with something pithy and passive-aggressive that I chose to interpret as an invitation.”
“Great,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” he continued. “He likes you. That means he won’t throw us out on our arses.”
My brows drew together as I ran through what I could remember of my limited interactions with Guthrie. “Erm... okay. What makes you think he likes me?”
Rans blinked, looking at me as though I was slow. “He warned you away from me, didn’t he? Must mean he likes you. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered.”
Once again, I replayed whatever snippets of conversation with Guthrie hadn’t been lost to shock and exhaustion. “Huh. I’d assumed that was just banter.”
Rans shrugged, the motion nonchalant.
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open to reveal a familiar landing, and I followed Rans to the entryway of Guthrie’s apartment. As before, he pressed a button on the intercom. “Open up, mate. We’re here.”
The white door swung open a few moments later, framing Guthrie in casual attire. He eyed Rans up and down. “Oh, good. Be still my heart.”
Rans shot him a manic grin that was there and gone in an instant. “That’s what I said,” he quipped. “And look how it turned out.”
I raised both eyebrows. “Oh, my god. Is subjecting the poor man to bad Nosferatu jokes the price of entry to this place, or something?” I asked, before turning my attention back to our host. “Hi, Guthrie. Thanks for letting us crash here. Again.”
“Hello, Zorah,” he said, stepping back. “Come on in, you two. You might as well make yourselves comfortable.”
“Cheers,” Rans said, herding me in so Guthrie could close the door behind us.
When it was secured, he led us into the airy kitchen and offered me a drink, while pointedly ignoring Rans. After handing me a glass of filtered ice water, he leaned against the counter, regarding us with his arms crossed.
“Just so you know,” he said, “I have to leave tomorrow afternoon for a business trip. I don’t care if you stay here while I’m gone, but if I come back to find the place destroyed in some kind of supernatural battle, you’re paying for the damage, Rans.”
It shouldn’t have been funny, which is why I attributed my poorly stifled snort of amusement to jet lag and the weird hours I’d been keeping lately.
Rans waved an airy hand. “Fair enough. I’m taking you out for that lunch I owe you tomorrow, by the way. And you run most of my investments, so you’re in a better position than I am to know if I can afford to renovate a penthouse apartment in St. Louis or not.”
Guthrie only grunted, apparently having reached his capacity for idle chitchat. Meanwhile, I tried not to show any outward reaction to the idea that Rans had money. It didn’t work.
“Okay—back up for a second. You have money?” I asked.
“He’s as old as dirt,” Guthrie said. “Of course he has money. Why worry about getting in on the IPO for Apple or Microsoft when you already got in on the IPO of the Edison Electric Light Company?”
Rans raised an eyebrow. “Though to be fair, Guthrie here did pick me up a few hundred shares of Apple at forty dollars apiece, back in the mid-eighties,” he put in.
Something struck me as odd in that statement, and it took me a moment to figure out what it was.
“Hang on. The mid-eighties?” I eyed Guthrie’s close-cropped dark hair and smooth ebony skin curiously, trying not to be obnoxious about it. “That would make you... what? Almost sixty? Um... I have to admit, you’re looking pretty good with it.”
The heaviness in Guthrie’s brown eyes took on a bitter edge. “What can I say? It’s part of the package deal.”
I paused, not sure what the most polite way to say ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ would be. I vaguely remembered Rans telling me that Guthrie had made an unfortunate decision when he was younger, and someone he cared about had died as a result. His wife, maybe? I’d assumed he’d gotten in a fatal car accident while drunk or something, but now my paranormal shenanigans detector was beginning to clamor.
“Guthrie is demon-bound, Zorah,” Rans said. “Oh, and, Guthrie? You should know that Zorah is the daughter of a cambion, since we’re all presumably going to get to know each other better in the future. She’s one-quarter demon.”
I looked at Guthrie with new eyes. Evidently, he was doing the same to me, because his normally flat expression twisted with a combination of anger and... fear?
“She only found out about her heritage on the night we showed up on your doorstep, old chap,” Rans continued, imperturbable. “It was after the Fae tried to take her. And I can guarantee she doesn’t even understand what a demon-bond is, so please stop looking at her like she kicked your favorite puppy.”
“It’s true,” I said, shooting Rans a glare. “She doesn’t know what a demon-bond is—beyond the fact that it lets you get into and out of Hell. So does anyone want to call class into session? I’m pretty much done with being clueless about the forces that apparently control my life now.”
Guthrie mastered his expression with some difficulty. He wiped a hand roughly over his face before dragging a barstool around and flopping down on it.
“Jesus Christ, Rans, do you enjoy dumping shit like this on me out of the blue?” He shot me another glance. “Sorry, Zorah. It’s nothing you’ve done. I just...” He trailed off and shook his head.
“Don’t worry about it, Guthrie. Believe me... my reaction to finding out was way worse. So. Demon-bond,” I prompted, settling onto my barstool for a longer discussion. “Is that anything like a life-bond?”
Rans leaned a hip against a nearby counter. “Funny you should ask that.”
“Oh? Is it?” I asked.
“Not really,” Guthrie muttered.
Crossing his arms, Rans regarded us.
